Art Critic
by Macy Webber
Summary: She just wanted a promotion, but the journalist got so much more. He just wanted to impress his new girlfriend, but he got so much more.


I wanted the promotion. That's all I wanted, I wanted to be one step closer to being a real news reporter. I did not want to be trudging though an art gallery asking people's opinion on this one random piece of art I didn't understand myself. Earlier that day I was resting comfortably on a recliner about to turn on the television when the phone started ringing. Reluctantly I picked it up; to my surprise it was the editor in chief on the other end.

"Lou," he said my nickname in a low gruff voice, "I need you to visit this museum it has some famous works by this one artist, Guatemala or something like that." I had heard about that exhibit, my coworker Jeff was talking about it a few days before. So I knew my boss was pronouncing the guy's name wrong, it was Guertena.

"Why would I want to do that on my day off?" I asked, "Get Jeff to do it he likes looking at the scribbles of dead dudes."

"I just called him, his wife is having a baby," he said into the phone, "Come on Louise," he used my real name, that meant he was desperate, "I'll give you a raise and that promotion you were asking about."

I sat up in my chair, "Why is this exhibit so important?"

"I just received news it has the original painting of Guatemala's most famous piece and if we can cover the story before our competitors, we may actually score some readers. So come on Lou you're the best reporter for the job," he pleaded.

"Fine," I said already out of my chair and getting ready, "Tell me more."

Soon I was in the art gallery loitering around the famous picture jotting a few things in my notepad. I tried asking people's opinions on it but most people there couldn't give me anything. They'd glace at it a few times then tell me it looked pretty or it had some deep meaning behind it. Yet no one could even produce a single hidden meaning much less a deep one. This is why I hated going to art galleries; you could never understand the true meanings of paintings unless the painter said it themselves. However this particular painter was long gone and had never explained the piece to anyone.

I sat in a park bench type chair situated a few feet away from the painting and gazed at the painting. It didn't look very special to me. I was still looking at it when I felt a small tug on my skirt. I looked to see a little girl in a little red uniform gazing at me with pretty crimson eyes.

"What does that say?" she asked pointing to the plaque beneath the painting. She was adorable so I stood up and walked with her to the plaque.

"The Forgotten Portrait," I read the title, and then glanced at the girl who was gazing intently at the picture, then I continued, "This is one of Guertena's most famous pieces of artwork notably because of the many mysteries surrounding it. For many years it went unnoticed, as it was thought to be the work of some amateur painter until recently it was proven to be Guertena's work. Its nickname is the sleeping man."

She never took her eyes off the painting until she noticed I had stopped reading. She looked up at me then bowed her head saying, "Thank you."

"No problem," I said smiling. I sat back down and saw the girl sitting down on the other end of the bench. She put her elbows on her knees then rested her head in her hands still looking straight ahead as if she was waiting for it to move. Minuets flew by as I found myself looking back and forth between the girl and the portrait. She sat so incredibly still that she could be mistaken for a statue.

I decided to go out on a whim and ask the little girl what she thought of the painting, she couldn't give me anything less than what all the adults I had asked had given me. "Excuse me Miss," I said, she stood up straight and looked at me, "Do you have any thoughts on the painting?"

"The man, I don't think he's sleeping," she said tilting her head.

"What else could he be doing…oh," my voice trailed off as I realized what she meant. It sent shivers down my spine, I never thought of it that way. I always thought he was just taking a snooze.

"I wonder what he was like," she said, "was he nice?"

This also surprised me, I never thought about what the man must have been like, "What do you think? He kind of seems like a scary person to me with the kind of clothing he's wearing."

"I don't think so," she said after thinking it over, "I think he would be scared more often than people would be scared of him. I think he's nice."

"Really?" I didn't get that impression. I started to think like she was and asked her another question, "What do you think his name was?"

"I don't know," she said scrunching up her nose like she was thinking real hard.

"He looks like a Steve to me," I said. She looked at me like that wasn't the answer she wanted.

"Did you see that thing on the ground by the man?" she asked pointing to a spot on the painting.

"No," I said then turned to look where she was pointing. Finally I saw it, a pale yellow candy wrapper lying on the ground by the man. That was certainly odd, "A candy wrapper?"

"And there's something else," she said. I searched the painting up and down until I found what she was talking about, it was a stick with little spikes on it, it looked like the steam of a rose. Next to it was a blue petal. That was odd in its self, as blue roses did not exist, "Why are they there?"

"I don't know," I said now so intrigued with this painting, "I noticed earlier there's a lot of blue in this painting."

"Because it's sad," she said. I looked at the girl and noticed tears forming in her eyes, "but I don't know why."

I started to feel a sort of melancholy emanating from this painting too. It almost moved me to tears as well. I wanted to know more about this man, and why was he sleeping or dead? Did he choke on the candy? Did the rose stem have a part in his story? The stem reminded me of a game I used to play in grade school where I would pluck the petals off a flower saying he loves me, he loves me not, back and forth. Hopefully I would end up on loves me so I would know my crush and I were destined to be together forever. I snapped out of my thoughts to see the girl sobbing.

"Are you alright?" I asked rushing over to the girl kneeling in front of her, taking her hand, "Do you have a handkerchief? Don't worry it'll be alright."

She nodded slowly and looked at a pocket on her dress. I reached in and pulled it out, when I gave it to her a lighter fell out of its folds. I tilted my head in confusion. Why would a girl that young keep a dangerous thing like that in her pocket? I picked it up when she grabbed it from me. She looked at me guiltily, "This is special to me," she looked a tad confused; "I think someone important gave it to me."

Before I could question this, "Ib!" A voice called out. I looked up to see a lady in red hurry up to the girl.

"Is she your child? She was looking at this painting and she started to cry," I explained making sure she knew I didn't hurt her or anything.

"I am her mother," she said, "Thank you for trying to comfort her, I think I can handle it from here," she grabbed hold of Ib's hand and helped her off the bench. They walked a little ways away when the mother stopped abruptly. "What's that in your mouth?" Ib pulled a small round yellow candy out of her mouth, "There is no eating in the museum Ib," she said shaking her head, "where did you even get that anyway?" I watched as they turned a corner and disappeared from sight. I looked back at the painting and focused on the candy wrapper. I shook my head, just a big coincidence.

I stood up satisfied. I started jotting down notes for my news story, I had a feeling it was going to be a good one. I wasn't watching where I was going and bumped into a young man, "Sorry," I said, "I should have been paying attention.

"It's okay," he said, "My name's Garry by the way, not Steve."

"What?" I looked up and no one was there, "You're losing it Lou," I said to myself. I walked home and started composing the first draft. I spent hours writing the article and I continued well into the night. I fell asleep at my desk and woke up to find it finished. So I sent the manuscript to my boss.

Later that day I received a call, "Lou," came the voice of my boss, "You've earned that promotion," he said, "This is amazing, maybe you should become an art critic for the paper."

The next morning on page three there was my review for the portrait. It read, "The Forgotten Portrait, also known as the sleeping man is famous for its history but not many people can see the true mystery behind the strokes of the brush. Sometimes you have to see it through the eyes of a child to truly appreciate it. A child would ask about the man in the painting, why is he there? Is he really asleep? What was he like? What was his name? You could keep guessing forever, his name could be Steve or Garry or something different entirely. He could be scary and mean or sweet and caring. That is the true joy you can get out of a painting, by using your curiosity and imagination to enter a whole other world. There were also a few other puzzling things about this painting…" the story continued and the article later became famous years and years later. I became an art critic for a fancy newspaper and I often visited that painting in whatever gallery it was in. I saw Ib years after that first incident when the picture moved back to the museum it all started in, she still had the lighter in her pocket and she still loved to ask questions. She told me she still felt sad when she looked at that painting but she never figured out why. I told her I had decided the man's name was Garry. She gave me a half smile and left soon afterword and I never saw her again.


End file.
